|Oct/Nov 2019 Poetry Special Feature|
Hereto folds himself
Like a paper boat,
to ease his hunger pangs. Watches
his mother died trying to cross, trying to survive,
Moments slip from the fist of time. He's just a boy.
birds, white blobs like whetted cream.
Hereto squirms in pain. The fishing rod
his father used on his back, his new mother indifferent,
traced indelible lines.
Pain seeps slow but deep. He's just a boy.
supper broth rushing through his veins,
to his dead mother
unsure of the weave of words,
on parchment paper saved from the last millennia.
Not lyrics, only cries. Melting heart.
Drains him, ignites him, spark that started the wildfire. He's just a boy.
Hereto whets a blade
on the stone floor
grits his teeth,
examines the sharpness.
"As you brew so you must drink"
Crimson spills. In his father's room. Hereto's no more just a boy.